I fancy she can do nothing better
Neither for herself nor for others
Yet, I shall not put her out of my home
My father had paid with difficulty to have her.

She sits in idle, in the main part of my house
With virtue, grace and silence since years
Yet, I wish not to move her an inch
My father had cared her as a good mistress.

Solitary and comfortless am I
Carrying poverty, bent by penury
Yet, she charms me each passing day,
With her smooth, enigmatic, well-known smile.

Clear forehead, affectionate pair of eyes,
Delicate hands that clasped uneven
She greeted one and all, for me,
So much like a habitual wall clock.

She brushed off the dust and din of my day
Whispering all the while, ‘It’s Ok’
I settle down humbly, in quietness,
Yet again, being distracted by her smile.

A smile that never was
Said many a man of great profile
But, I praised the angelic hands that painted her,
My Monalisa, Oh! She smiled for art’s sake.

Harvest Season

My days are spent here, on the dry land, handed down
By my fathers of yore, now, I love it as my own.
Blunt like the nose of my old man, a hill rises suddenly and
Stands guard over my fields, slows down the rare clouds.

The only brown path through the hill, turned towards my hut
When walked on mud, slow or fast, dust rose heavenwards!
Whistling and singing on my way, the echo always filled me with joy
My feet knew the path than me; I knew the path better than any.

The time of harvest came running, before the field could see the rain
My Jowar crops did fail, I blamed nobody.
A quintal was all I got, five less than the previous season
The husk was removed, crop that was left, now weighed even less.

Reap as you sow is not for crops, I murmured to my forefathers.
Times have changed, man has too. How can the gods be left behind?
I floated towards my hut, seeing, yet not seeing my path.
Words, reasons, manners, ways I kept thinking to soften her temper.

Ah, there she is, my lovely weather-beaten wife
She stood by the door; my throat went dry like a desert well.
Looking at the spoils of the season, her face turned beet-red, with
Anger and dejection. My toil hurt her, more than I ever noticed.

I stood still to receive, her high pitched words with no meaning
Rarely used or meant to, yet like hot-noon air on a summer day.
I pursed my lips and stood silent, raised my arms towards the sky,
Wiped my brow, heaved a sigh and oh! She rushed inside.

She rushed inside to fetch me, me a glass of water. I gulped,
Quenched my thirst – smiled at her, a smile of sadness
I thanked my farmer forefathers, for teaching me such resilience
We have wronged the Nature, said I, Let Her have Her way.

Author’s Statement on Beauty

Beauty is the self. One can feel it, realize its all pervading existence only when one tries to see for oneself; within oneself. A spectrum can be seen in a glass prism, crystal, diamond or even a water droplet – only when white light shines on it. That essential white light is beauty – like the self within.

Focus the light on any receptors, it will give out the same band of colors, focus the self on anything that comes within the frame of Nature, it will emit unique happiness. That is beauty.

Beauty is hence a hidden entity in all things that needs to be liberated by bestowing one’s essential gaze of awareness.

Thriveni C. Mysore is a science teacher by profession. She loves to read poetry on nature, philosophy and humanities. She tries to communicate her thoughts through poetry, for her, ‘tries’ is not a verb but a whole paragraph.